The roots
In Motta Sant’Anastasia, the small village outside Catania where my father was born, a thousand-year-old olive tree lives and grows. Mystery clouds the knowledge of its actual age – who knows? Is it 1,000 years old? 2,000? I have never seen this tree, but it calls to me. I imagine its windswept, sun-worn branches and roots that extend deeply into the ground.
My roots are here in Sicily, too.
When my father, Orazio, was nine years old, he boarded a ship with my grandparents, Agata and Andrea, along with his brothers, Nunzio, Anastasio, and Carmelo. My father celebrated his 10th birthday on the ship, and my grandmother struggled with tending to her youngest son, just six months old. The ship docked in New York Harbor where relatives rushed to kiss and hold them close. Reunited, they drove north to Lawrence, Massachusetts, and there, the family Di Marca began a new life in America.
Fast forward, over half a century later… I’m leaving Boston on a plane bound for Catania. I’m compelled to improve my Italian because I want to make deeper connections with family and friends in Sicily. I registered for four weeks of classes with Giga IH Catania, and I rented an Airbnb apartment in the center, “il centro,” of Catania. I’m a little nervous, but overall, I’m thrilled to begin this adventure!
Little village by the big volcano
For the first 10 days, my father is in Sicily, too, reconnecting with relatives and friends, and helping me get settled. When we arrive, we stay with our good friends, Nuccio and Sara, in the countryside (“compagna”). Their grandkids, Giorgia and Gregorio, ages 6 and 3 are adorably sweet and only speak Italian. Giorgia wants to know all the colors in English. “Giallo?” “Yellow!” “Verde?” Green!” We move from room to room, each one of us the other’s teacher, joyfully identifying colors in both English and Italian.
In Catania, I help my dad navigate busy streets in the quintessential Italian car we rent, a FIAT Panda. We also visit his village, Motta. We drive the narrow and winding medieval roads until he parks the car by the Norman castle, and we explore on foot. My dad shares childhood memories with me in the little corners of the village where they happened. The edge of the medieval quarter stands on a cliff. Looking in one direction, Mt Etna, the volcano, dominates the sky, while in the other, far beyond the low hills, the deep blue of the Mediterranean meets the horizon. We hear church bells ring the hour.
Catania: language classes at the International House school
I am a teacher by profession, so it’s no exaggeration when I say my language teachers are top notch. Roberta and Sara create dynamic classes with a variety of learning activities centered on a specific grammar point. Classes are theme-based. I love learning Italian through exploring topics such as literature, food, health and exercise, space and future technology, travel, relationships, and family. I am whole-heartedly focused on achieving the “next level” of understanding and communicating in Italian. Roberta and Sara are dedicated and patient teachers (“insegnanti”) who put me at ease whenever I feel I am struggling.
Embrace the confusion
“Confusione” is the word sometimes used by my relatives and friends in Sicily to describe the frenetic energy of Catania’s streets. I’ve discovered that “confusione” also describes the state of my mind in the following situations here in Sicily:
(1) Having a conversation and trying to use the right word by mentally sorting through all forms of a verb in a single moment
(2) Engaging in an experience and understanding only half of what’s going on
(3) Shopping for the Italian product that is close to the equivalent of the American product I know (ex. deodorant, conditioner, facial soap, moisturizer, etc.)
However, I’ve learned that, in time, if you wait… and accept help from people… and don’t give up… understanding comes. This means making mistakes. And laughing – a lot. But learning, always, as you go. It also means becoming comfortable with not knowing things. And having faith that, regardless, it will all work out. It’s all part of the adventure!
Wonder
Two weeks into my language course, I’m in class and reading an interview of Italy’s beloved first female astronaut, Samantha Cristoferetti. “Awe,” Cristoferetti explained to the interviewer, was the word she felt, in English, gazing down on earth (“terra”) for the first time from orbit in space. But Cristoferetti then explained there is no Italian direct equivalent of the word “awe.”
How ironic, I thought. This is what I feel, here, in Catania, daily. When I leave my apartment each morning to walk to International House, I walk on cobblestones made of black lava rock, worn smooth by centuries of passersby, and up Via Etnea lined with fashionable shops and enticing pasticcerias. At the end of Via Etnea, the volcano itself towers in the distance and slopes down to the long road. I pass by ruins of an ancient Roman amphitheater in Piazza Stesicoro, cut through the elegant and shady Villa Bellini gardens, and walk a quarter of a mile along the Viale. I imagine the lives of the former inhabitants of the historic palazzos that line the street, translate the Italian on the advertisements I read on either side of the road, and simply, people watch.
Were it not for a decision made by my grandparents well over 50 years ago, this would be my home, too.
Just say “Yes!”
I said, “yes.”
The best way I find to improve my Italian (and build connections) in Sicily is to accept invitations from well-meaning friends, family, and even strangers, when the feeling is right. I never sing karaoke back home, but “when in Rome” (or Motta Sant’ Anastasia, as it were), I was invited by my cousin Sofia, and we went to the local Tex-Mex restaurant for drinks, dinner, and endless laughter over singing. I said, “yes.”
My friend Daniele, who lives in Catania, asked me to lunch. He kindly offered to give me a lift from International House on his “bike” to avoid the heat on a long walk. Me – on a motorcycle? In Catania, motos and motorcycles are ubiquitous, and Daniele knows the roads well. Zooming past the palazzos and pedestrians, the temperature dropped as a cool breeze washed over us. I said, “yes.”
Accepting a lunch invitation from my dad’s 1st cousin, Nunzio, brought me to Catania’s seaside community, Ognina, where his wife Teresa cooked a delicious seafood soup with tiny purple clams along with freshly seasoned grilled fish. It was wonderful to bond with relatives who I so rarely see, especially as my Italian improves. I said, “yes.”
And in Palermo, I met a fellow solo female traveler, Maria, who is Sicilian, who invited me to spend the day with her at Mondello, the stunningly beautiful local beach. I said, “yes!” We communicated nearly 100% in Italian, and we made friends with another female solo traveler, Concetta, that afternoon. Together, we explored Palermo’s lively streets that evening. Like Catania, after dark, Palermo surges with residents and visitors alike who venture out for dinner, walks, and the excitement that nightfall always brings.
The family tree
The date of my departure is drawing closer. I’ve turned in the key to my charming Catania Airbnb, and I’ve said goodbyes at International House to my wonderful language teachers and fellow students from Holland, Kenya, England, and Hungary.
Now, I’m staying with my cousin Salvatore and his wife Rosalia at their house in Motta Sant’Anastasia. Their daughter, Elisabetta, and I are sitting at the kitchen table. Elisabetta has just turned 16 and I helped celebrate her June birthday at an elegant pizzeria outdoors (“fuori”) with her parents, sister, and friends from school.
“How are we related again?”
This question inevitably surfaces every time I visit Sicily. I admit, I often forget whose mother or father shares a brother or a sister with my grandmother or grandfather. Elisabetta disappears into her room and returns with blank paper. We decided to create a family tree or “albero geneologico,” Elisabetta says. I write “Orazio and Agata Di Mauro” at the top. Her dad, Salvatore, joins in, and we learn that Salvatore and I are the great-grandchildren of Orazio and Agata, who married over a hundred years ago here in Sicily, and had eight children. Salvatore and his daughters descend from one of these children, “Santo,” who was Salvatore’s grandfather, while my grandmother, named “Agata,” like her mother, was Santo’s sister. It hits me that Agata is not only the patron saint of Catania, but the patron saint of… my family!
It feels like Elisabetta and I are unlocking a mystery puzzle together, playing on the same team, writing these family members’ names down and seeing, for ourselves, the connections on paper. It’s exciting to see the tree expand with additional names in each new generation; however, we are still missing several names. Who did great-uncle Salvatore marry in Foggia? And how many children did they have? We don’t have time to finish, but we start to dream: why not have a family reunion and invite everyone? Should we have it in America – or Sicily? What if we had it in both places, at the same time, with a giant Zoom screen? We are wide-eyed and a bit giddy over the possibility to unite family on two sides of the world. It’s an incredible marvel, especially considering that we share more than 100 years of family history.
Clarity
And, all too soon, “troppo presto,” it’s time to leave Sicily. Unfortunately, I never got to see Motta’s very ancient olive tree, so many thousands of years old. I wonder, will I feel the absence of Mt Etna on the horizon? Or miss the walls of flowering cacti bordering country roads? Will my suburban town in Massachusetts feel too quiet and mundane after the fervent energy of Catania, the elegant city built of lava rock?
My plane takes off and I’m treated to a perfect vista of Catania below. We fly over the sea, just east of the port where ships are docked and a pier juts out and angles south. I spot the Duomo of St Agata with the largest dome of the city, and gaze down at the thousands of buildings clustered together with Etna towering above, a stream of white smoke trailing into the sky.
Back home, I’m surprised when I come across an old Italian postcard that my grandmother Agata had sent to my father when she visited Italy, a few years after I was born. Nana never learned much English, so we had few words to communicate in when she was alive. This was a frustrating challenge, but we made it work. Nana passed away a few years ago at the age of 100.
On the old postcard, my grandmother’s cursive is highly slanted and some of the letters that make up the words are tightly formed. I puzzle out the language. To my true delight, I can understand her Italian.
Baci e abbracci alla tua moglie e bambina.
“Kisses and hugs to your wife and baby girl.”
The “bambina” in my grandmother’s old postcard? That was me. My roots are in Sicily, too.
